Winter's Bear
by EchoFallsFromGrace
Summary: Joffrey decides to tell Tommen a story of a bear a long, long time ago, before both were born. Time set, Joff is newly crowned King. Multichapter, some girl on girl in the later ones. Reviews are loved :)


He spied the chubby child sitting on his throne, and it took him all his patience not to skewer the young prince where he sat. The golden haired boy's right leg was tucked underneath him, his other swinging back and forth, his grubby little hands playing with a wooden horse and its knight, his eyes occupied with his own meager world, words and noises tumbling out of his mouth like marbles. Inane noises that made the king cringe inwardly. He put on a big, lopsided grin that he did not feel entitled to and strode through the large room to where his brother sat, his golden cloak flying behind him.

"Tommen."

The boy's green eyes met his with apprehension and fear. His little rump adjusted in the seat uncomfortably.

"Joff."

"Tommen." Joffrey Lannister repeated, shaking his head. "What have I told you about sitting on my throne?"

"I'm sorry, I was just-"The younger boy bit his lower lip. "-practicing."

"For what?" The king demanded. "For when I'm dead? For when _you_ get to be king of the seven kingdoms?" He spat on the ground. "_That's treason, Tommen._"

His little brother gazed at him, eyes wide, mouth turned down in a grimace. Joffrey had learned, after all these years, that he loved putting the fear of the gods into his people more than anything else in the material world, his family included. Myrcella didn't let herself get taken so easily, she ignored him as best as she could, but Tommen…Now there was another story.

"I'm sorry."

"Y-you are?" Tommen's face stared up at him quizzically.

"I am." Joffrey's hand came to rest on his heart in a token of good faith. Tommen's eyes followed his every move wearily as he lowered himself to the steps to take a seat at his younger brother's feet. His fingers found the edge of his cloak, and he began to absently furl and unfurl the stag and lion imprinted material.

"You remind me of a story." Joffrey smiled up at the prince. "With your leg tucked in beneath you like that. Would you like to hear it?" The boy's emotions ranged on his face, from excited, to concerned, back to glee, then to somber. He was obviously warring with himself, unable to completely trust his brother, the king.

"I-I guess. If my lord would like to tell it." He made to stand up, but Joffrey held up his hand, stopping him.

"Stay seated." Tommen sat back down heavily. "Have you ever heard of the Winter Bear?"

"The Winter Bear?" Tommen repeated shakily. "No. Should I have? Did I miss a lesson of Maester-"

"I didn't think you had." Joffrey cut him off. "You know, they _never_ tell this story, they only tell it to the king, it's a shameful page in the history of Westeros." He sighed. "I don't think you're ready to hear it." He stood up.

"Joffrey, wait!" Tommen pleaded. "Please tell me, I swear to the Seven I won't tell anyone." The golden haired king turned slowly.

"Swear it to me."

"I swear to you, Joffrey, I won't tell anyone."

Satisfied, Joffrey took a seat again at the bottom of the Iron Throne, staring up into the mirrored green eyes full with envy and want. He smiled.

"Do you know of the Frozen Isles?"

Tommen's face screwed up in thought, and he brought his sleeve up to dab at his nose after a few seconds, embarrassed. "No."

"I didn't think you would. This was hundreds of years ago, Tommen, during the reign of the first Targaryen. The Frozen Isles were north of King's Landing, past Winterfell, hidden deep behind the mountains and forests that lay behind the Night's Watch." He drew an invisible map on the tiled floor to make his point. "So far, that urine turned to ice as soon as you sat down to relieve yourself. And that was in the _summer_." Tommen shivered.

"As a pact between him and the wildlings, the king of the seven kingdoms at the time, Aemon, first of his name, sent a family to live on those isles, to rule the free people, to guide them to civilization and prosperity and the Seven. The Fellstones." He cleared his throat. "He had been on the throne for almost ten years, and hadn't noticed his youth leaving him-"

_He had been on the throne for almost ten years, and hadn't noticed his youth leaving him until a sword sat, resting, underneath his chin and he was too tired to reach across the bed for his own. Gone were his uncounted days of glory fighting in the sun and in the rain. His dark, purple eyes searched the face above his, a pale, gaunt face full of sores and wrinkles and unsightly blemishes. He had been woken by the sun's rays slowly drifting past the blood red curtains and into his room. His whore had left hours ago, but his bed was still warm, and the kiss of the steel across his neck was cool as he sat up into it, a stark contrast to his pleasant dreams. _

_ "What is this? Where is my guard?" He asked hoarsely, his voice betraying him. The man opened his mouth to speak, a mouth full of twisted, brown teeth, his breath rancid._

_ "You've been summoned to the throne room, my liege."_

_ Aemon sat up a little more, the sharp edge to the sword threatening to break skin. "Summoned? You have to be joking. No one summons _me_."_

_ "I'd do as ye're told, if I was you." The man mockingly bowed low to the ground, his nose practically touching the floor._

_ Aemon Targaryen was wrenched out of his bed, a nightshift thrown over his naked body, and marched to the throne room. He gazed around, noticing that most of his court had been thrown out of bed as unceremoniously as he had been, his entire council stood in their sleeping garbs by the great oak doors. He spied his fiancée by a column, hugging herself for warmth, the sun shining in her golden hair, apparently not enough to keep her from shivering and from goosebumps breaking out over her soft skin. He was thrown to the floor in front of his throne, his iron throne, newly turned black from its earlier molten yellow as he watched his smiths turn his enemies' weapons into a chair only a victor could sit in. His eyes moved up the broken arrangements of swords into the face of a white bear._

_ And only its face. A pelt had been made of this once proud creature, its black eyes staring him down, its mouth open, encasing a smaller face inside. The person wearing this ridiculous makeshift cloak and helm was skinny, ragtag, the armor dented in the most odd places. One leg was nonchalantly tucked underneath the other, one foot tapping out a random rhythm on the marbled floor. He could not see the man's face, the bear snout hid the upper half of his face, and his chin was enrobed in sharp teeth, like the top of the mouth, and he knew the perpetrator could see him as much as he couldn't glimpse. _

"_Where is my guard?" Aemon demanded, standing up to his full height. The bear said nothing, only kept the thumping on the floor going. The king found himself losing patience quickly. "Who are you?" He snapped, angrier this time. Again, the white fur enclosed man said nothing, only shifted in his, _Aemon's_, seat. His fur came undone, and Aemon could only spy the fractured paint and broken lines on the armor. A white bear on black, surrounded by three snowflakes. His breath caught._

_ "Fellstone." _

_ The man's gloved hands came together to slowly clap, the echoes bouncing back on the walls to ring in his ears. Delicate, feminine hands. He found himself taken aback. The clothes, the upturned nose, the small feet._

_ This was a woman._

_ A woman had taken his throne room._


End file.
